


they say home is where your heart is set in stone

by illuminatedcities



Series: The Florence Verse [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, F/F, F/M, Loneliness, M/M, Multi, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Major Character Death, Travel, ignores Season 5 canon, post Season 4 fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-16 00:02:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7244194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don't think it's a good idea to stay in contact,” John says, voice rough on the words. His chest feels tight, but he pushes the sentence out anyway. It's like that last part of a long run, when your lungs are burning, and you have to force yourself to set one foot in front of the other. “Just to be safe.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	they say home is where your heart is set in stone

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to Sky for encouraging me to write _all the things_ and working her beta magic on this with the speed of light.
> 
> Special thanks to villainny for epic squee, overall hilarity (there were actual TEARS OF LAUGHTER in the editing process) and making sure that this story does not have a colon in _every single paragraph_.  
>  (It's fine, you guys, I'm getting the help I need. I'll be okay. <3)
> 
> Bonus shoutout to Dana, who reads essentially everything I write and is always super encouraging about it. 
> 
> I LOVE EVERYONE IN THIS BAR

The AI apocalypse ends with a bang, a few whimpers and a hailstorm of bullets, one of them hitting John's shoulder, the other one perforating his lower intestine. It is, John thinks, lying on his back on the concrete floor with Harold's hands pressed firmly over the wound in John's gut, not a bad way to go: Harold's voice is shaky, but familiar, and he keeps talking to John, even though John can't quite comprehend the words. The pain softens into numbness, and it feels like John's body is sinking into cold water, the perfect stillness and peace of the sea. John tries to reach out to touch Harold's hands - blood slick and pressed against John's body, trembling gently - but John finds that he can't move his arms. Distantly, John is aware of the things he meant to say but didn't, like a seashell curled into the hollow of his palm, like every secret he's ever kept. Around them, the lights flicker and go dark, or maybe that doesn't happen at all: maybe it's just the edge of blackness that slowly seeps into John's vision, drowning out the light.

\--

John regains consciousness under the clean, light-blue sheets of a hospital bed. He blinks into sunlight streaming in from a window and his eyes hurt from it. His throat feels rough and sore like he swallowed sand. A dark-skinned woman with a complicated braid and a white coat smiles at him over a clipboard. The plastic badge clipped to her pocket identifies her as Dr. Rashja, General and Visceral Surgery.

"Hello, Mr. Reese,” she says. “I'm Dr. Rashja, one of the surgeons who looked after you during the time you've been here. How are you feeling?”

John considers that. “Fine,” he says, but it comes out a little forced since opening his mouth makes him cough painfully.

“You look remarkably well given the fact that I had my hands in your bowels less than three days ago." Dr. Rashja looks down at her clipboard. “I was on call when they brought you in just after the shooting. Your shoulder healed up quite nicely, but the abdominal injury showed signs of infection, so we performed a second surgery. Your labs looked fine this morning, though, no sign of inflammation.”

John looks around at the spacious room. There is an impressive array of medical equipment stacked around his bed: there’s a thin plastic tubing attached to an IV in his elbow; plastic bags with clear liquids inside dangle on a metal holder above. A monitor shows jagged lines in different colors: heart rate, the line of an ECG, the even movements of his breathing. It all has the appearance of a posh Upper East Side private clinic, which is weird, because the last thing John remembers is that they were in a firefight in the middle of an epic AI war.

Next to him, Harold is curled up in an uncomfortable position in a visitor's chair. His left arm is in a black sling, and there's an impressive bruise on his forehead in a shade between blue and purple.

"Harold," John croaks, and Harold startles awake, wincing when he straightens his back. It takes him a moment to become aware of his surroundings, but when he looks at John, his expression relaxes visibly like a cloud passing and revealing the sun.

John tries to speak and instead starts coughing violently with the effort. The coughing in turn makes his shoulder and ribs hurt like hell. The monitor beeps, dismayed. "Shaw," John croaks. Dr. Rashja forces an ice cube on him that is blissfully cool on his tongue. "Root,” he says around the ice on his tongue.

Dr. Rashja notes something on her clipboard. "I'll leave you alone for a moment so you can catch up. I'm sure you have a lot of questions, and I can check on you later." She smiles. “Good to see you fully awake, Mr. Reese. You probably don't remember much about the ICU, but we were a bit worried about you for a while.”

John shakes his head. It makes his neck and temples hurt.

Harold gives her a brief nod. "Thank you, Doctor."

Before she leaves, she turns to face John. "Sometimes it takes the body a while to heal after big surgery," she says. "You shouldn't give up hope too soon." Then she leaves without another word.

John makes an attempt to sit up, but his body objects on the grounds that it hurts like hell. "What is she talking about?" John rasps.

Something painful flickers over Harold's expression. "We managed to contain Sameen long enough to remove her neural implant and sever the link to Samaritan," Harold says. "Root suffered a gunshot wound during the escape when she–" Harold looks down at where he has his hands folded in his lap. "When she saved my life," he finally says. "She managed to get Sameen and me to safety, but the blood loss was substantial."

John feels a cold settle into the pit of his stomach. "Is she dead?"

Harold looks at him with big, concerned eyes. He looks like he hasn't slept in a year. "She had emergency surgery five days ago, but she hasn't regained consciousness since. She's still in the Intensive Care Unit.”

By now, John really feels that being unconscious might be the better option. "I don't remember anything after the Machine went online again. I know there was gunfire, and Root was running off somewhere, and Sameen–"

Harold gets out of his chair with difficulty and steps closer to the bed. His limp is more pronounced than usual. "She was the one who shot you," Harold says. Up close, John can see that Harold's chin is covered with stubble. "She was controlled by Samaritan at that point. Apparently she was aware what was happening, but unable to stop the proceedings." Harold shivers, like the thought of being used as a puppet by a super intelligent AI makes him physically sick. It probably does. "The first thing she asked when we managed to remove the implant is whether you survived."

"Looks like it," John says, poking at the white gauze and surgical tape on his shoulder. At the edges of the tape, his skin is colored faintly orange from the disinfectant.

"John," Harold says, growing serious again. "I need to tell you something."

His head feels like it's filled with cotton balls. "... Fusco?" John finally thinks to ask, ashamed that the question didn't occur to him sooner.

Harold looks stricken. Then he shakes his head.

John closes his eyes. There are two sharp points of pain thrumming in his shoulder and gut like hot signal flares.

"I'm so sorry John," Harold says.

The door opens, probably his doctor coming back to adjust his pain medication and let him slip under again. John feels Harold's fingers against his wrist, then Harold squeezes John's hand. John wants to ask: _did we win?_ , but he can't hold on to the thought. He sinks into a silence that is deeper than sleep.

\--

Since the two most powerful super-AIs on the planet essentially destroyed each other in the final battle, there is no need for John to escape from the clinic in the middle of the night with his stitches barely healed. In fact, Harold seems to have produced convincing cover-identities for all of them, claiming that they belong to a special undercover branch of the NYPD. Apparently the entire medical team believes that they got hurt pretty badly under circumstances that are sadly classified, all very hush-hush. John wonders how Harold sold it to the neurosurgeons that there was a microchip installed in Sameen's brain, but if John has faith in anyone to produce an excellent cover story, it's definitely Harold.

When John wakes up again, Sameen is slouched in the visitor's chair, eating all of the jello from his food tray. Her head is shaved where they drilled into her skull, the wounds now hidden by pristine white surgical tape. She looks like a very hungry, slightly unhappy corpse, with violet shadows under her eyes like something from a bad horror movie.

"I'm really sorry that I shot you," Shaw says through a mouth full of green jello. 

Fair enough. "I'm sorry I punched you," John says. He has a very distinct memory of getting into a fistfight with her before she managed to shoot him, he also probably threw her through a window.

Sameen smirks. "It's fine, Reese, you hit like a toddler. Also, I kind of wanted to punch mind-controlled me as well, so I get the sentiment."

They share a look of quiet understanding. Sameen opens a new cup of jello and licks the inside of the lid. "Root opened her eyes today for a few minutes," she says. “She even coughed a little, but they don't want to remove the plastic tubing before they're sure that she's able to breathe on her own.”

"That's great," John says. He reaches for the glass of water on his nightstand, but can't quite reach it.

Sameen gets out of her chair and hands it to him. "Let me look at your stitches," she says, tugging at the hospital blanket that covers him. John lets her.

"What happened to Lionel?" he asks.

Sameen presses her lips together. She carefully peels off the surgical tape from John's stomach and lifts up the gauze. "He volunteered to attach a bunch of explosives to the Samaritan main servers. Didn't get out in time." She shakes her head. "Pretty sure he saved the day."

John looks at the angry red scar below his bellybutton, a jagged line like a badly drawn mouth. The edges are held together by what looks like tiny metal clips. "He and Root did."

Sameen nods sharply. "Looks good," she says. "I have no idea what kind of fancy hospital this is, but they sure know their stuff." She smoothes the surgical tape back over the wound.

"The surgeon said that it sometimes takes people a while to wake up after big surgery," John says.

"Yeah?" Sameen says, chuckling. "I wouldn't know, Reese, I never went to med school or anything.”

"Good to see that you're back to your old, pleasant self," John tells her. It's true: John made a point of not injuring her too badly when they were fighting. He has no idea if the AI-assisted brainwashing left any lasting damage, but since Sameen isn't straddling him and trying to choke him with a pillow, he isn't really that concerned about it.

Sameen punches his uninjured shoulder and retreats back to her seat. "You have physical therapy in twenty minutes. Maybe I'll get some snacks from the vending machine and watch."

"Fuck off," John says, smiling.

"I love you too, you asshole," Sameen says, and then wolfs down the rest of John's lunch.

\--

A few days later, while John is being forced through the twentieth repetition of a set of exercises by his extremely pretty and vaguely sadistic physical therapist Jenny, the door to his room opens and Harold steps in with an expression that John can't read at all.

"What is it, Harold?" John asks. He's panting a little from the exertion. It's pretty embarrassing.

Jenny helps him to sit down on his bed and does that nice thing where she puts her hands on his arm and loosens up the muscles in his shoulder.

Harold does something extremely unexpected: he smiles, bright and happy in a way that makes John's insides twist with confused longing.

"There's someone here to see you,” Harold says.

John wonders if the doctors have finally given up on trying to keep Root in her bed. If Sameen can't manage it by glaring at her and detailing all the things that she will do to her if Root tears out her stitches again, there's no hope for anyone. John half expects a flash of her dark curls, but instead of Root's slender frame, a nurse wheels in a man in a standard white hospital gown. There's a cast on his leg and his right arm is bandaged. The skin around his right eye has the green of a fading bruise.

"Of course you get the cute PT, Wonderboy. Mine is a forty year old, balding ex-drill sergeant," the man says.

John's brain takes a moment to catch up to what is happening. Next to him, Jenny blushes a little at the compliment.

"Lionel," John croaks, and then he's on his feet and crossing the room and awkwardly hugging him in his wheelchair.

Lionel clumsily pats his shoulder. "There, there," he says. "Don't get all emotional on me. I'm pretty offended that it took the firemen so long to dig me out of the rubble, you'd think they stopped at Burger King first."

If either Harold or Lionel notice that John's cheeks are wet, they are decent enough to keep quiet about it.

–

Sameen gets released earlier than both John and Root, which is incomprehensible to John since she was the one who had her head drilled open with a power tool, but he guesses that's modern medicine for you. Lionel, despite having a whole building collapse on top of him in the aftermath of the explosion, got away with a concussion, an impressive collection of fractured bones including three broken ribs and a broken leg, and a collapsed lung.

Harold divides his time between their hospital rooms. He sits in the visitor's chair, drinks the awful hospital tea and types away on his laptop, occasionally asking things like “How do you feel about the seaside?” and “Do you have a favorite state?”

John thinks about pointing out that most people would probably be fine with just one fake identity, but overall he's just glad that Harold has found a way to keep himself busy while they all slog through their physical recovery.

Root, despite taking some of the worst hits, bounces back to health like a cat with a little more than the average amount of lives. She takes to fussing about Harold, bringing him blankets and insisting that he should eat more food that doesn't come from a vending machine, which makes Harold huff and reluctantly accept her tender ministrations.

“You would think that I was the one who saved her life instead of the other way around,” he complains to John one evening. “I should be bringing her chocolate and wrapping her in an inordinate amount of blankets.”

“It's how she shows her love, Harold,” John says. It's supposed to be a joke, mostly, but Harold blinks at him, considering, before wrapping himself more tightly into his blanket. He never brings the issue up again.

–

John doesn't know who comes up with the idea, but somehow, a few weeks later, they all end up under the shade of a tree in Central Park, eating hot dogs and receiving unlabeled envelopes containing passports, official documents and a suspicious amount of cash.

“Did you rob a bank, Harold?” Sameen asks through a mouthful of sausage.

“Don't tell me, I don't wanna know,” Lionel says.

John wonders if Lionel's envelope contains a new identity, too – probably not, he thinks, since Lionel seems happy enough to go back to his job and his son, now that the 'confusion' about his 'involvement in criminal activity' has been cleared up. (“How the hell did Glasses do that?” Lionel asked Root. “I didn't think they'd let me back on the force in a million years after all the laws I've broken during the wacko AI apocalypse.” Root just gave him a blank stare. “It's Harold,” she said.)

Root and Shaw have separated from the rest of the group to sit beneath the tree and probably plot world domination. John isn't as worried as he probably should be; he mostly thinks it's cute. He walks over to Harold instead.

“Do you know what you're going to do?” John asks. He can't really imagine Harold as a real professor, or an IT guy for that matter. His real job always seemed to be working the numbers.

Harold looks at the people in the park: couples, families, people playing with their dogs. “Since the Machine is gone, there are no more numbers to take care of,” he says thoughtfully. “And there won't ever be. It is both a loss and a relief.”

John swallows. He hasn't let himself think about what comes next, what he's supposed to do now.

Harold turns around to him. “What are your plans for the future, John?”

John shrugs. None of the identities in his envelope is Detective Riley, but he probably could stay in New York anyway, if he wanted. The identities aren't there to protect their lives anymore, not with Samaritan gone, but they are a chance to live a regular life, birth certificate and taxes and getting to vote and everything. The idea seems crazy.

“Don't know yet,” he says. “Maybe get out of the country for a bit.”

John sees the surprise pass over Harold's face before he manages to hide it. “I assumed you might want to stay in New York,” Harold says.

John remembers Iris with a sudden flash of guilt. Shit. She probably thinks he is dead, or missing. He hasn’t talked to her in weeks. “I'll tie up a few loose ends first, and then I'll just see what happens,” John says.

Harold nods. “Well, I guess I should make travel arrangements myself,” he says. He seems upset: it's something in the line of his shoulders, the tight set of his mouth. John isn't sure why. Maybe Harold really dislikes goodbyes.

“I should probably fly to Florence,” Harold says. “Grace works as an instructor at the Florence Academy of Art. I think I owe her an explanation.”

Grace. Right, John had forgotten all about her, too. Behind them, the others seem to be getting ready to leave: Sameen hugs Lionel and kisses his cheek while Bear looks up from the hot dog Sameen bought for him to bark two times in quick succession.

“So this is it, then,” John says. He feels sick, suddenly, like the world is spinning off its axis around him.

Harold reaches inside of his coat pocket. “Most of our safety measures aren't necessary anymore, I don't think,” he says. “But I'll still give you the number of a burner phone until I have something permanent–“

It hurts to think about it: Harold in Europe, sitting somewhere in a cafe with Grace, eating tiramisu. Living in an apartment with a land line, occasionally asking John on the phone how he is doing. Maybe a clean cut is better, John thinks. Less mess.

“I don't think it's a good idea to stay in contact,” John says, voice rough on the words. His chest feels tight, but he pushes the sentence out anyway. It's like that last part of a long run, when your lungs are burning, and you have to force yourself to set one foot in front of the other. “Just to be safe.”

Harold has produced a slip of paper and a black velvet box. “Are you sure, John?” he asks softly.

John shrugs. “With the numbers and Samaritan gone, there's really no reason to stay in contact, is there?”

There is a part of him that wants Harold to object, to point out to him all the reasons why they shouldn't part. John would be happy to find a new abandoned library and listen to the police radio all day, hear Root and Harold bicker over the earpiece during stakeouts with Sameen. The thing is, they all deserve to have a life after the things they went through, and just because John doesn't have anywhere to go, it doesn't mean that the rest of them shouldn't leave.

Harold looks down at the objects in his hand. “I suppose not,” he says.

Then he hands the velvet box to John and pockets the slip of paper. The box is bigger than the one John's apartment key came in. John opens it. It's a wristwatch, sleek white and silver with a black leather band.

“I still owe you a watch,” Harold says, smiling sadly.

“Thanks,” John says. The idea of walking away from Harold makes him want to throw up. He holds out his hand. “Thanks for everything.”

Harold's face goes through a few expressions before settling on a mix of surprise and something that almost looks like regret if John squints really hard. “Thank you, John,” Harold says, and shakes his hand.

The rest of the goodbyes are said in the same somewhat embarrassed fashion: Harold and Lionel share a meaningful look since shaking hands seems awkward with Lionel still leaning on his crutches. Root makes finger guns at John before walking over and hugging Harold tightly, her face pressed against his neck. Harold says something to her that John can't hear, and Root laughs and wipes at her eyes when they part. She squeezes his hand before walking away.

Sameen, much to John's surprise, pulls him into a crushing hug. “Don't die,” she says. John nods.

“I never,” John says, then falters.

Sameen still hugs him. “You don't have to say it,” she says, and John exhales a shuddering breath and kisses the top of her head.

The whole thing is over in a few minutes, and then they all go their separate ways: Root and Sameen leave together, with Bear trotting along by their side. They hold hands like a regular couple out on a sunny Saturday afternoon instead of a lethal hacker/assassin combo.

Harold walks away by himself. John makes it to the edge of the park before he turns around and watches Harold leave, all the way until Harold passes a corner and he is out of John's sight.

–

John spends an awkward hour in Iris' kitchen, presenting a lot of guilty apologies about not being in contact sooner. They sit across from each other at the table. John has his hands closed around a coffee mug.

“You're not going to tell me what is really going on, are you?” , Iris asks after a while, apparently not buying the 'undercover mission gone pear-shaped' excuse.

John grimaces. He has no idea how to explain the AI apocalypse to her. He doesn't think that he should, either. She has a lovely small apartment with peach-colored pillows on the couch and the sun streaming in through the windows and a cat purring and butting its head against John's ankle. He leans down to pet it, and it makes a pleased noise.

Iris takes a sip from her own coffee. “I took unpaid leave and stayed with my parents because you told me to get out of town for a while, but after a few days I couldn't justify not being here and doing my job, you know? I didn't hear from you at all,” she says.

“I know,” John says. There are pictures on her fridge: a vacation snapshot with her parents, a photo of Iris and a group of friends toasting with cocktails at a bar. “There was a lot going on at the time.”

Iris nods. “There always seems to be,” she says.

They sit in silence for a while. The cat rubs itself against John's leg, playing with his shoelaces.

“Look, John, I know you're struggling, and I understand that there are some things in your line of work you can't talk about. But I can't be with someone who refuses to let me in,” Iris says. “I can't keep doing this if you'll just disappear every other week without explanation, and then expect me to just go on like nothing happened.”

“I get that,” John says. He does. “I wish I could tell you, but it's. It's complicated.” He stares into his mug. “I'm going to be out of town for a while, take care of a few things.”

Iris frowns. “Where are you going?”

“I don't know yet,” John says. “I'm going to travel under a different name, it's- it’s one of these witness protection programmes, I guess.”

Close enough, John thinks.

Iris shakes her head at him. “I can't just drop everything and leave with you,” she says. Then she looks at his expression and laughs. It doesn't sound particularly happy. “And you're not asking me to come with you. You're just informing me of your plans.”

“You shouldn't have to give up your life here,” John says. “I can't ask you to wait for me. I don't know when I’ll be back.”

“If that's what you feel you need to do,” Iris says. She stares at a point behind him on the wall, blinking quickly.

John wants to reach out to touch her hand, but she gets to her feet and busies herself with washing out her mug in the sink. John finishes his coffee. She tells him goodbye at the door and closes it behind him, and John walks down the stairs and out of the apartment complex onto the street, where the sun shines into his face.

–

John drums his fingers on the smooth, orange plastic counter in front of him. It's littered with glossy, high-resolution brochures of luxury spas and expensive ski hotels. There are sheets of paper with special offers taped to the wall of the little cubicle: Mallorca, Thailand, Tunisia, Sweden.

“Good morning, how can I help you?” , the travel agent asks him. She's a bored, middle-aged woman in a pencil skirt. Her desk is littered with gum wrappers.

John feels himself blush, embarrassed. He figured that walking up to one of the little cubicles was an improvement over standing in the entrance hall for an hour and staring at the departures schedule, waiting for inspiration to strike. Now he is not so sure. Maybe he should have made a plan before showing up at the airport. “I've been thinking about traveling to Europe,” he says.

The woman stares at him. “Any country in particular?”

John instantly forgets every European country he has ever heard of. “Uhm,” he says eloquently.

The travel agent sighs and does something on her computer that's either related to John's inquiry or, more likely, a game of solitaire he interrupted. “What do you have in mind? A city trip, countryside, a beach vacation?”

John shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I didn't give it much thought yet,” he says, a little desperately.

The woman looks like she would like to whack him over the head with her keyboard. “Mountains or the sea?” , she asks, which is apparently the most basic travel agent question she can think of.

“Sea,” John says.

She puts her gel-manicured fingers onto the keyboard and types something. The printer whirs and produces a page full of text with a picture of a cathedral in the upper right corner. “Barcelona has some of the nicest beaches in Europe,” she explains, incredibly bored. “It's a city in Spain.” She slaps the page onto the counter. “Europe.”

John purchases the beach vacation in Spain as an act of pure self-defense.

–

The hotel is a giant cement block overlooking an admittedly gorgeous beach in the middle of a busy tourist area: bars and souvenir shops and restaurants with the menus printed on huge pieces of cardboard outside in the street, the smell of garlic and fried paella rice wafting through the air. On his first day, John buys a pair of olive combat pants and a black t-shirt and sits barefoot in the sand for a while. After half an hour, he gets restless and goes to explore the beach promenade. He passes ice cream vendors and shops that sell giant inflatable plastic animals and straw hats, and walks until his feet hurt and he loses his way in the streets of an unfamiliar city.

In the evenings, he sits down alone at a table in his hotel restaurant and stares at the buffet spread out on the tables. There are huge metal trays sitting on crisp white tablecloths, filled with seafood and steaming rice. He eats mechanically, without appetite, drinks one glass of beer with his dinner and then goes up to his room to zap aimlessly through three different Spanish soap operas, a game of soccer and a Law and Order rerun before he turns off the lights and goes to sleep.

John lasts for three days before he throws the few clothes he has brought into his duffle, pays the full two weeks rent for his room and then flags down a cab to the airport.

–

For the next few months, John drifts aimlessly around the continent, living off the supply of money that Harold has put into the bank account of one of his new identities. John lands a few odd jobs that he doesn't manage to hold for more than a few days at a time: a job at a restaurant kitchen in Prague, security for a dubious office building in St. Petersburg, handing out advertising pamphlets in a busy shopping area in Vienna.

The job at an animal shelter in Paris is nice enough, and for some time John cleans bowls and lugs huge boxes of pet food around and goes on walks with the rescue dogs. In the end, John gets fired when he sees one of the employees kick a Cocker Spaniel with his heavy working boots, walks straight over and gives the guy a broken wrist and probably a decent concussion. (The guy gets fired, too, and is too busy running for his life to sue for damages, but apparently John's employers are a little alarmed by John's proclivity for casual violence.)

John collects his belongings and walks out onto the street when he realizes that the Cocker Spaniel is running after him through the open gate, her tail wagging wildly. John stands in the street for a while, waiting for the employees of the animal shelter to notice the runaway, but after a few minutes John realizes that with the cages stocked to capacity and more animals coming in daily, they probably won't even care enough to go looking for her.

She's a white dog with brown spots and curly, thick fur. They found her just three weeks ago, abandoned in a cardboard box at a gas station, almost starved to death. John remembers spending the better part of an afternoon scrubbing her in a plastic tub and combing through her matted fur. When he carefully toweled her dry later, she licked his hand in gratitude and butted her head against it, demanding to be petted.

She wags her tail and runs around his feet until he crouches down to pet her. “Looks like nobody wants you either, huh?” , he asks.

The dog rolls onto her back for additional petting. John sighs and rubs her belly, then he straightens up and says: “Wait here.”

John ends up using his employee key to get into the office and get her pet passport, vaccination details and microchip certificate. Somebody has written the name Ruby in black ballpoint pen in the 'name' section of the passport. John leaves twice the amount of cash required as a fee to take dogs home from the shelter to soothe his conscience and leaves his employee ID and keys on the desk. When he gets back outside, Ruby is sitting in the shade of a tree, waiting patiently.

–

John considers buying her a travel box, but when he looks at them in the store they look too much like tiny prison cells. Instead Ruby gets a dog pillow that he can fold up and put into his duffle, along with a collar, a leash, food and water bowls, dog food, some extra treats and a squeaky toy to chew on. As it turns out, Ruby is perfectly fine with traveling as long as she gets to follow John around. On the train, she curls up on the pillow by his feet and sleeps, occasionally peeking out curiously behind his legs when another dog passes or the smell of food wafts over.

John doesn't sleep. He doesn't remember the last time he slept for more than a few hours at a time. He doesn't remember the last decent meal he had, and he finds it difficult to care. He is falling through the cracks, living life in the short span from one bad idea to the next.

When they reach their final destination, John exits the train with Ruby tugging excitedly on her leash. John buys them lunch and then sits down on a bench on the platform, his coat wrapped around him against the wind. Autumn has tipped over into winter, and John can feel the chill in his bones, the taste of snow in the air. It will be Christmas in less than a month, John thinks. He feeds Ruby half of his turkey sandwich and sips on his coffee. John's throat feels sore, and he's shivering more than he should given the weather; maybe he caught a cold. Over the speakers, a friendly voice says _“Welcome to Firenze Santa Maria Novella, Florence Main Station.”_

–

John walks through the busy centro storico with Ruby at his heels, sniffing every corner and wagging her tail. A few tourists walk the cobblestone streets and admire jewelry in the windows of the little stores on the Ponte Vecchio bridge. It seems to be a bit too early for the crowd of Christmas shoppers, and they can stroll through the city in peace. John consults his city plan: the only thing he has marked is the Florence Academy of Art. Once he finds the building, he casually walks past it, trying to decide what to do. Ruby pulls on her leash, trying to cross the street and greet a dachshund on the other side.

John considers staying outside for a bit. It's lunchtime, and chances are that Grace might leave and grab something to eat. Then again, she probably won't walk all the way home for that – John would have to come back later in the afternoon to follow her home, or call at the art school and manage to get her address by charming some innocent secretary. What is he planning to do once he has her address, though? Follow her home and hope that he will get a glimpse of Harold leaving the apartment, or stand in front of their window and look inside?

John walks down the street and pulls his coat tighter around him. He makes it as far as the next corner when he passes the large windows of a café and sees them; Harold and Grace, sitting together at a small table in a corner. There are two small white porcelain cups with espresso between them. Harold takes the chocolate cookie that came with his cup and gives it to Grace, and she takes it and pops it into her mouth, then reaches out to take Harold's hand.

John feels like his heart is tired of beating, just clenching painfully in his chest, a sore muscle. Grace gives Harold a dazzling smile and Harold moves her hand up to his mouth, brushes a kiss over her knuckles.

It feels like John walked straight into a brick wall. He is standing in the street like an idiot, with Ruby pulling on her leash more insistently, eager to keep exploring. If John were a better person, he thinks, he would just let it go. He caught a glimpse of Harold, the new life he built for himself. John should find a hotel and make a decision what to do with the rest of his life. He should move on.

Instead, John makes a deal with himself: he decides to take another walk around the block and, if Harold and Grace should be gone when he comes back, he's going to be on a train again first thing in the morning.

John comes back from his walk just in time to see Harold and Grace saying goodbye in front of the restaurant. They kiss, and Grace grabs the lapels of Harold's jacket to pull him closer, smoothing the fabric down when they part. It's not that he isn't happy for them, John thinks. He is. It just feels more like the happiness is mixed in with something else, something sharp and bitter that rattles around in his chest. Grace makes her way back to the academy, and Harold crosses the street and turns a corner. Without hesitation, John follows him.

–

John follows Harold to a building a few blocks away and watches him disappear inside. John pretends to walk along the storefronts for a while, but he is so cold that his teeth are chattering with it. He isn't dressed for winter in his shirt and thin coat, and Ruby keeps looking up at him with an expression that conveys quite clearly what she thinks about their latest city trip.

“I just want to make sure he's okay,” John tells her. He pulls his coat tighter around him.

He turns left into a narrow, cobblestone-paved street and nearly trips over a backpack on the ground. A few men and women are huddled together at the entrance of a house, wrapped in raincoats and wool sweaters caked with mud. An old, greying dog lies on the doorstep, and Ruby yaps excitedly. John takes a deep breath. The memory is so vivid that he can nearly taste the whisky on his tongue, smell the smoke where he was sitting around a fire with a dozen others, trying to warm his freezing hands. _Who's taking care of you these days? - Someone new._

John walks away with measured steps.

–

He gets coffee and sandwiches from a café a few streets away and makes his way back to the group of homeless people seeking shelter in the nearby alley. A lot of rapid-fire Italian greets him while hands wrap around the hot paper cups and the sandwiches are devoured. John thinks about bringing something more practical next time: blankets, maybe, soap and basic medical supplies, some bottled water. An old lady wearing three sweaters against the cold comes over to hug him and kiss his cheek and says something in soft, careful Italian that John doesn't understand. He sits down and leans against a wall, feeling a tiredness that is bone-deep and heavy. His lungs are burning and his face feels hot, and he coughs and curses himself for not finding them a hotel when he was still on his feet.

After a while, Ruby noses at his hand. She's shivering in the cold, and John feels suddenly, deeply guilty. He can't even take care of himself, he shouldn't have taken on responsibility for another life. He scoops her up and holds her close to him, wrapped up in his coat. They need to find a place to stay, but all John wants to do is go home, to the bookshelves of the library, the serene quiet of the subway station. Home to afternoons spent at the park with Bear and odd, subtitled movies and eating ice cream cones in spring.

John closes his eyes for just a moment, and then, suddenly, he hears a familiar voice, gentle in a way that feels like someone reached inside of his ribcage.

_“Come on, John, let's go.”_

–

John wakes up to find Harold curled up in a chair next to John's bed, in a moment of intense déjà-vu. This time, he's not in a hospital room, even though his lungs feel like they're filled with breezeblocks. Instead, this time, it's an apartment, soft rugs and antique-looking furniture, bookshelves with paperbacks and Tiffany lampshades. Ruby is curled up at the foot of John's bed, snoring softly.

“Oh hey, you're awake.” Grace appears by John's bedside. She looks lovely, wearing jeans and a soft-looking grey sweater, her red hair tied up in a messy bun. She reaches down to gently run her hand through Harold's hair, and Harold blinks and stirs, then he sits up straight in his chair.

John averts his gaze. He suddenly remembers pulling Harold into a crushing hug, half-leaning on him on the way to the apartment. John's knees felt weak every step of the way, and he was coughing so hard that it felt like bits of his lungs were shaking loose.

“We had a doctor in to see you yesterday, I don't know if you remember,” Harold says.

John remembers fever dreams, a sharp bite on the inside of his arm where the i.v. went in, his own wet, miserable coughing. “Yeah,” John says. His voice sounds wrecked.

Ruby startles awake at the sound of his voice and clumsily climbs over his legs to lick his hand.

“I'm fine, sweetie,” John says, coughing some more.

“She's lovely,” Grace says, leaning down to scratch Ruby's head. Ruby leans into the touch, wagging her tail. “I mean, at first she tried to bite the fingers off everyone who tried to come close to you, but I think we managed to convince her that we mean well.”

“I think it was mostly the breakfast sausage that convinced her,” Harold says dryly.

John manages to sit up. His lungs feel heavy on every breath, and his whole chest is hurting with something worse than a cough. “Sorry about causing you so much trouble,” he says, wincing. “I'll just. I'll be on my way soon.”

“Oh, for Christ's sake,” Grace says.

Harold gives her a look that seems suspiciously like _See? I told you._

“You have pneumonia, that's not something you just shake off. We're just glad that you're okay,” Grace says.

_We?_

Harold gives him a stern look. “You were in a pretty bad state when I found you, John. Malnourished, freezing, barely able to stand upright. The doctor gave you antibiotics and fluids and grumbled about wanting to take you in for an x-ray a lot.”

John blinks. “Wait,” he rasps. “How did you find me?”

Harold closes his mouth and leans back a little in his chair. Grace tilts her head and looks at Harold expectantly. “Well. Tell him.”

Harold looks distinctly uncomfortable. He makes a vague motion in John's direction. “You're still wearing the watch I gave you.”

John pulls out his hand from under the sheets. “Sure,” he says, frowning down at it. “What–“

“There's a GPS tracker built into it,” Harold says. He has the grace to look embarrassed.

“Oh,” John says stupidly. It takes a moment for the implications to sink in. “So you knew... where I was? You knew I was in Florence?”

Harold shifts a little in his chair. “I thought you might take up permanent residence in Paris at one point,” he says. “Then I saw your signal at the train station and, well.”

“I told him to get you roughly four hundred times,” Grace says. Harold shoots her a betrayed look, but she just makes a dismissive gesture. “He's been worried sick all the time you spent traveling around in Europe, sat in front of his computer every night and checked your signal.”

John's eyes are stinging with tears, so he turns his head away and pretends to have a coughing fit, which isn't that difficult if your lungs feel like they've been worked through a meat grinder. Grace leaves to get him a glass of water, and Harold sits down at the edge of the mattress. He smoothes down the blanket that, as far as John can tell, didn't have a single wrinkle in it.

“I would have liked you to stay with me,” Harold says, and his voice sounds so careful that John barely recognizes it. “I should have told you that back in New York, but I didn't– it seemed like you wanted to leave, and I didn't want you to change your plans out of some feeling of obligation.”

John looks at him. Harold looks different, somehow, like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. The lines around his eyes seem more pronounced, which is probably John's imagination: it's only been months since they saw each other. It seems like a lifetime.

“You found Grace,” John says, eager to change the topic. He can't think about the idea that Harold wanted him to stay, that Harold wanted him, it's just too much to take in.

“I did.” Harold smiles. She takes way too long just to get a glass of water, and they both know it. Apparently Grace is better at emotional things than both of them combined. “It wasn't easy, and for a while I wasn't sure if I made the right choice. If I had any right to ask forgiveness, after the things I did to her.”

“Looks like she made the right choice, too,” John says.

Harold's hand tightens on the blanket. “I missed you very much,” he says, and in a way, it hurts more than those two bullets ever did.

–

Grace and Harold spend the evening with him, Harold in the armchair, Grace sitting cross-legged at the foot of his bed. She's even lovelier than John remembered, funny and generous and good, and they look so happy together that John feels a stab of helpless jealousy. So maybe Harold wanted him to stay in New York, but that was months ago, and before he had Grace back in his life. Maybe Harold checked on him because it was a habit, something he had been accustomed to do. Maybe Harold felt responsible still.

Ruby lies curled up in Grace's lap and submits to being petted while Harold and Grace take turns telling him stories about their lives in Italy. Harold shows him a framed photograph: Root's smiling face, with Sameen wedged in awkwardly next to her, looking like she wants to climb out of the frame and punch someone. John had only realized after his departure that he had no idea how to contact any of them - Fusco, maybe, if he was still working at the NYPD, but mostly, John has cut ties with everyone in his life to such a degree that it makes him wonder if he really wasn't just running away.

John doesn't offer many stories, mostly because there isn't too much to tell. He talks about how he got Ruby, and Grace asks him about some European capitals, architecture and art and the things he went to see. He doesn't have the heart to tell her that mostly, he stared at the walls of his various hotel rooms, trying to fight down the urge to go downstairs and get a bottle of Scotch from somewhere.

At some point, John's eyelids feel heavy enough that he can barely keep them open, and Grace nudges Harold with her toe.

“We should probably retire for the night and let you rest,” Harold says. He's fussing with the blanket again.

Ruby yawns and curls up next to John on the mattress.

“Sleep tight,” Grace says, and, to John's surprise, leans down to brush a kiss against his cheek.

John flushes, suddenly wishing that she would hug him, put her arms around his neck, rest her head against his shoulder. He quickly catches himself, she isn't his, and he is yearning for enough things already without adding Grace into the mix.

“If there is anything you need, we are just across the hall,” Harold says.

John nods. He waits until Harold turns his back and is on his way out. “Harold?”

Harold turns around to him. Grace is standing in the doorway, a cardigan wrapped around her. John can see them in ten, twenty years, sitting in that same café and holding hands. He licks his lips. “Thanks for finding me,” he says.

Harold looks a little puzzled. “Don't mention it,” he says. He looks like he is going to say something else, but then he just smiles and says: “Goodnight, John.”

“Night,” John says. He can feel Ruby's quick heartbeat against his palm when he puts a hand over her ribs. He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he wakes up four hours later, he quietly gets out of bed and gets dressed.

–

Ruby is apparently very displeased with John's plan to leave, and expresses it by stubbornly staying on the bed even when John is done packing his few belongings and putting on his shoes and is standing in the doorframe.

“Come on,” he says quietly, trying really hard not to wake up Harold and Grace. John is pretty sure that even if they didn't want him in their home, they would be too kind to throw him back out when he has barely recovered, and he doesn't want to wait for the moment when they get fed up with him and carefully suggest that he should probably leave. (Or, worse, that they would let him stay because Harold felt too responsible, too obligated.)

Ruby jumps off the bed and bites into the leash hanging from John's hand, pulling at it like she wants to drag him back into the room. “We gotta get going,” John says. He coughs a little; his lungs aren't up for much physical exertion yet, but he is pretty sure that he can manage to find a hotel and crash there for the night, and then leave in the morning. The wristwatch is sitting on the nightstand. John doesn't want to give Harold reason to worry, this time.

“Come on,” John says. “It's time.” Ruby, as if she understands, lets go of the leash and trots next to him, ears flopping unhappily.

John makes it all the way into the kitchen only to walk in on Grace, wearing pyjamas covered in tiny, colorful robots and closing the fridge door in the semi-darkness. “John?” She flicks on the lightswitch, and the room suddenly turns bright, exposing him.

John freezes. He is carrying the dog bed, Ruby's leash and his duffle stuffed with the rest of his things. The walk to the kitchen has exhausted him already, and he feels a little faint and decides to sit down on one of the kitchen chairs.

“What are you doing?” Grace asks, walking around the kitchen island to face him.

She puts a hand against his forehead like he might be running a fever. Ruby runs around her ankles excitedly, wagging her tail.

“I'll just. I'll leave, save you the trouble of saying goodbye tomorrow.”

Grace stares at him. “You know, Harold told me that you would be stubborn about letting people care for you, but I didn't think it would be this bad.”

John suppresses his pathetic impulse to ask: _Harold talked about me?_

He feels dizzy, a little nauseous. He should have taken more time getting up, he has been lying in bed for days.

“John,” Grace says. Her hand is still resting against his forehead, and now she slides it down to cup his cheek and he just– he lets himself lean into the touch, just a little. He is so tired.

“I know you don't know me that well,” Grace says. “But I know so much about you. Harold told me all these stories about you, about the way you worked together, how you saved his life.” She doesn't move her hand away, and John turns his head and closes his eyes, blindly leaning into the touch of her fingers. “I know him, John. Even if I don't know all of his secrets or... identities, and all the details, but I know the important things. I love him. And I know that he loves you.”

John flinches. He opens his eyes to stare at her.

Grace smiles, a little, sad smile. “After all of these things– after he spent every night worrying about you, wanting to get you back, how can you still not believe that?”

A little, painful noise works its way up John's throat. “You don't know me. You don't know about the things I've done.” He swallows. “I'm not a good person, and the two of you deserve better.”

Grace moves her hand away from his face and reaches down to take his hand instead. “All the world was open to you, John. A whole new continent, and you accidentally gravitate to the one city where you know he would be? Accidentally ended up in an alley behind the house he lives in?”

“I don't mean. I don't want to intrude,” John says, a little desperately. _I don't deserve these things_ , he wants to say.

Grace squeezes his hand. “He trusts you, and he cares about you so much. And I care about him, you know? I made a choice to let him into my life again, with everything that entails. The thing is: you are a part of that. You are the thing he has been carrying around in his heart for all this time, and now that I met you – you, not the fake detective – I understand why.” She runs her thumb over the back of his hand, and John wants to go to his knees in front of her and kiss her knuckles. “I fell a little in love with you just listening to the words he said about you.”

John takes a deep breath, but the whole room is spinning, and he isn't sure his legs will ever work again.

“John, I think it would break Harold's heart to see you leave again. I mean, if that's what you truly want, you are free to go, obviously,” she says. Ruby has curled up next to her feet, her ears moving while she listens intently to Grace's voice. “But if you're planning to leave because you don't want to bother us when really you want to be with Harold - with me even, maybe - then please don't. Please don't leave.”

John feels like he's coming undone at the seams. “Okay,” he says, squeezing her hand a little, and Grace beams at him and pulls him into a hug.

She's warm against his chest and her hair is so soft under his hands, and he is shaking all over by the time she lets him go.

Grace looks concerned. “Are you going to run away again in the middle of the night?”

John shakes his head, embarrassed. “Don't think so,” he says.

She nods. Then her face brightens up, like she just had an idea. “Would you like to come sleep in our room, maybe?”

John has it all on the tip of his tongue: _I can't – I don't deserve – Why would you let me –_

“Harold was about to get up and check on you three separate times, by the way. At eleven, he woke me up to ask if you might need extra blankets. I mean, he's probably asleep now, but you being there might ease his worrying and let me get some sleep. And, well. Prevent me from smothering him with a pillow.”

She's nervous now, John can tell, like she's afraid that she pushed too far with the offer, scared him off. The truth is, John is convinced that none of this can be real, that he will wake up in a cheap motel room in Prague any second, and so he might as well enjoy his dream while it lasts. “Okay,” he says. He leaves his stuff in the kitchen and takes her outstretched hand. Ruby trails after them while she leads him to the bedroom.

–

Harold sits up on his side of the bed when they come in, turns on the bedside lamp and fumbles for his glasses. His hair is mussed up and sticking up at weird angles, and seeing him in soft blue pyjamas is so weirdly intimate that John feels like he should look away to protect his privacy.

“Is everything alright?” Harold asks. He looks concerned.

“Sure,” Grace says cheerfully. “I invited John to a sleepover, I'm sure that's fine with you?”

Harold's face goes through a series of expressions John has never seen on him and doesn't know how to place, then Harold nods briefly and wordlessly folds back the blanket, patting the space next to him.

It would feel right to crawl his way to the bed on hands and knees, possibly through glass shards, but John has a feeling that the mental image might worry both of them even more. Grace has made a bed for Ruby out of extra pillows: she looks like the tiny French dog version of a Disney princess in it.

“I didn't know where to go,” John says. He doesn't consciously decide to say it, but it just comes out. “All I wanted was to go home, and home was. Home was with you.”

Harold nods. His eyes are very large and blue, John thinks, and there is a sadness in them that he hasn't seen in a long time. “You don't ever have to go anywhere else again, if you don't want to,” Harold says.

John climbs onto the bed and does crawl, after all, and then Harold's hands are on him, pulling him close, and Grace settles in at his back and puts her arms around him, too. John rests his head against Harold's shoulder, shivering violently, and Harold says “Ssh” and “It's alright” and holds him close, and Grace kisses his neck and pets him, and John closes his eyes and knows that he's home, he's finally home. 

\-- fin


End file.
